“I’m a mentor.”
This sounds promising. I wait for more, but he doesn’t say more. He asks, “What about you? Tenth grade now? Am I right?”
“Yeah. But kinda no. It’s a long story.”
We are vague. Ten-year-old Sarah would be disappointed. Ten-year-old Sarah likes details. Ten-year-old Sarah will probably never come around anymore because I was so rude to her last night.
“What?” Bruce said. “You’re not in tenth grade?”
“It’s a long story,” I say again.
“I have time.”
“I’m only figuring it out,” I say. “I’m in some sort of . . . transition or something.”
“In school?”
I don’t know what to say. Here is a brother I haven’t talked to in six years. Now he wants me to tell him how I’m doing when I don’t know how I’m doing.
“Do you come back to Philly and not tell us?”
“Kind of,” he says. “I came back twice.”
“And?”
“And the first time I called Mom, but she said Dad didn’t want me in the house,” he says. “The second time was for business. I didn’t tell them I was there.”
“But I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
“What kind of kids do you work with?”
“Mostly at-risk kids. Kids who are messed up.”
“Like delinquents or what?”
“All of that. And runaways and kids in the system and orphans and kids who are just bored and don’t have much to do. The whole gamut.”
“Is that Bruce?” ten-year-old Sarah says. She’s appeared next to me on the bench.
“Shhh.” I’m elated to see her.
Bruce says, “Are you talking to someone?”
How do I explain this?
I say, “I think I’m an at-risk kid.”
“Oh.”
“I stopped going to school. Now I’m just walking around most days.”
“Do Mom and Dad know?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that Bruce?” ten-year-old Sarah asks again.
“Who is that?” Bruce asks.
“My friend from around the corner,” I lie. I turn to ten-year-old Sarah and say, “Yes, now quiet.”
“Are they freaking out over you not going to school?”
“Yeah. And no. It’s weird.”
“Are you failing or something?”
“No.”
“How was your birthday?”
What a strange question. My birthday was in March. It’s May. Maybe Bruce is so far away now that those dates seem closer together to him.
“It was fine,” I say.
“Sweet sixteen,” he says.
“That’s the most unoriginal thing you ever said,” I say.
This was probably the wrong day to call Bruce.
The Movies
I said I’d call him back tomorrow. I nearly told him I was having an existential crisis, but it didn’t seem fair to him. He’s in Oregon and a stranger now. I’m in Philly and a stranger now, too.
Ten-year-old Sarah asks, “Wanna go find Earl?”
“I don’t follow Earl anymore.” I don’t tell her that I think I’ve become Earl.
“Okay.”
“I think I need a nap.”
“You were up all night,” she says.
“Do you want to come to dinner this week?” I ask.
“That’s weird.”
“Mom says we’re having tacos.”
“I love tacos.”
“I know. I’m you.”
“You don’t know who you are,” she says.
We walk back home and ten-year-old Sarah asks me how Bruce is. I tell her I’ll know more tomorrow. It’s getting near twilight and I feel like last night made me lose a day. Ten-year-old Sarah says she wants to come in and I let her come in because I know Mom will be working and Dad didn’t recognize her last time.
Mom is there when we walk in. She doesn’t look at first. Just says, “Sarah? Is that you?” Ten-year-old Sarah and I both say yes. “I got the night off—switched with Georgie for Tuesday. Your father got called into work today. Some weekend insurance emergency, I guess. Want to go see a movie or something?” She’s dusting the mantelpiece, her back to us. We stand there, twins but not twins, and she turns around.
“Hi,” we say.
She freezes. She puts her fingertips to her chest. She squints. She frowns. She concentrates. She crosses her eyes. She scratches her head. She finds her way to the couch and sits down, still staring. We stand there.
“Sarah?” she asks.
We both nod.
I say, “Dad said she could come for dinner this week but I forget which day.”
“This—this is your—friend? From around the block?”
“Hi!” ten-year-old Sarah says with a wave. Same wave I have. Same wave we’ve always had. The circular fun wave.
“He said we were going to have tacos,” I say.
Ten-year-old Sarah says, “I love tacos!”
Mom is speechless.
“And I love movies!” ten-year-old Sarah adds. “Can we go, Sarah?”
“I need a nap,” I say.
Mom says, “I need a glass of water.”
I go to the kitchen and get a glass and get her some water out of the water cooler we have because of trihalomethanes. Philadelphia water has some history with trihalomethanes, and Mom avoids cancer when she’s not in the ER. Who doesn’t?